


pull me down

by flagpoles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not Canon Compliant, dont ask honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flagpoles/pseuds/flagpoles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I caught a doctor’ he says after a minute of actively trying not to stare at the trail of freckles running down her neck, ‘you need to come with me, like, right now.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three things i wrote a long time ago when i still had hope for this show

There is mud in her shoe.

“There is mud in my shoe” she informs him, and can hear his eye roll through the dark. 

“We have bigger issues, and would it kill you to whisper” he mutters, and she really wants to kick mud into the back of his shoes and see how he likes it. 

But she doesn’t, because she’s Lydia Martin, and she keeps her shit together. 

“I will not whisper” she says loudly, “Stiles, these people are all dead. It literally does not matter whether we’re quiet or not” 

He ignores her, instead poking his head around the doorway like a nerd, so she just sighs and attempts to walk around him. As if he was expecting her to do it, his arm whips out and grabs her around the waist. 

“I think I heard something” he whispers, rather loudly. 

“It was probably the sound of my IQ plummeting from the stupidity of this situation”

His head is still stuck around the doorway. What a shit, he’s not even listening; he’s got that look on his face when he’s thinking about some stupid thing that shouldn’t exist in the real world.

“Deaton wouldn’t have sent us here if it wasn’t important” he explains.

“Deaton would’ve sent Scott here if it was important”

That gets his attention. Stiles whips his head round to look at her and she can see his milky face in the dark. 

“What do you mean ‘sent Scott’?”

“I mean” Lydia sighs, “that clearly this is not a dangerous situation. For one, we’re in a morgue and everyone here is dead, two: we’re just here to check if anyone’s storing bodies in here and three, Deaton has sent you and me to handle it”

“What’s wrong with you and me?”

“Stiles, you're paler than cream, all you do is wear plaid and you tripped up the staircase we walked up to get here about seven minutes ago . I'm five-foot five and the only super power I have is screaming.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and she worries that she may have actually hurt his feelings. “Five foot four” he says at last. 

“What?”

“You’re actually five foot four”

She raises her eyebrows at him, then remembers he can't see, so she just snorts and walks through the door. It smells terrible, like rotting flesh, and Lydia’s mouth is suddenly filled with the taste of dead people. Like ash and raw bone. 

“See?” she says, even though they can actually see anything because they couldn’t figure out how to turn the lights on, “nothing to report.” 

(They’d spent a full ten minutes outside working on the switch board, trying to figure out how to turn them on. Stiles had flicked two knobs and then promptly electrocuted himself. Lydia had spent the remaining seven minutes leaning against the wall and waiting for him to stop clutching his fingers and shouting oh fuck me and Jesus) 

He follows her in after a minute and walks around the room, all bodies stored in cases as if they’re in a jewellery store. But there is nothing weird here, and nothing to indicate that there was any evidence to support the claim in the first place. 

(On the drive over here they’d eaten chips and had a competition to see who knew the most digits of pi) 

“I'm not saying you're right because that would only encourage you” he says 

She grins and doesn’t answer him because she thinks he knows. 

(She’d won of course, she had been memorising pi since she was seven years old and knew the first hundred digits backward, literally.) 

“Let’s go” he pronounces, “we still have chips in the car and I told my Dad that I was taking the dog for a walk”

“You don’t have a dog”

“I think I exceed expectations when I even give an excuse at this point”

(They drive home, she changes all his radio station settings in his jeep because all his are terrible, and he googles fifty more digits of pi and reads them off the phone on his lap while driving. Lydia rolls her eyes because he’s so Stiles it makes her head hurt, but she doesn’t say anything, just gets out of the car when they reach her house and feels his warm eyes on her all the way up the drive)


	2. two

She opens the door wrapped in a towel .

‘What?’ she says, hoisting it above her collar bone with one hand and grasping the door with the other. Her foot taps against the welcome mat.

Stiles’s brain momentarily freezes, because there is Lydia. The actual Lydia Martin. Standing in her doorway wrapped in a blue towel with her hair dripping onto the floor. God his life is so weird.

‘I caught a doctor’ he says after a minute of actively trying not to stare at the trail of freckles running down her neck, ‘you need to come with me, like, right now.’

She notices that his forearm has a cut running right up it and into his shirt sleeve; it’s bleeding down onto her porch. Lydia has become scarily indifferent to blood.

‘I need to get changed’

“Ah, okay” Stiles doesn’t know what to do with this information. Thirteen year old him would have sold not only his soul but the entire left side of his body and possibly Scott’s to just to be in this position. But seventeen year old Stiles is wondering if he has the same bath towels as her and if she's always had that scar on her kneecap.

“What?” she moves the towel a little higher.

Did he say that aloud? “I’ll meet you in the car” he says, and trips over her porch step when he turns around. Spastic idiot. She runs upstairs and pulls out the first pair of pants and shirt she can find, we should call Allison she thinks and then: oh. Because there won't be any calling of Allison ever again, and it’s been a year of still having to make an effort to remember that. She leaves the towel on her floor, and only realises she's forgotten shoes once she's locked the door.

“Where are your shoes?” he asks the minute she opens the passenger side, because he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Lydia barefoot and she knows it.

“I thought it was an emergency.”

“Yes but there is always time for footwear”

“Stiles.”

“Right” He backs out of her driveway and she can see the veins in his neck when he’s craning to see over the top of his seat. They're stark against his pale skin, like lakes or blue thread that winds around his pulse point. She jauntily reaches out to put on the radio, because it’s an emergency and it’s also Stiles.

“How did you catch it?” she has a sudden image of Stiles, wheedling a sword and chopping of the Doctor’s helmet in one movement. It is, of course, ridiculous, because it’s Stiles, and he tripped over the front step on her porch literally four minutes ago.

“It snuck up behind me while I was looking around the animal clinic for clues about Deaton” - you were looking for clues about Deaton’s disappearance at eleven thirty on Tuesday night?- “So I hit it with a fire extinguisher until it fell over and then I- well, I came to get you.”

That’s a better image, frantic- probably swearing- Stiles repeatedly hitting a huge metal killing machine twice his size with a fire extinguisher.

“-tried to call Scott but he’s in New York visiting Kira” she wonders how long he’s been talking “Malia is having some ‘no phones allowed’ dinner with her Dad and Liam blocked my number yesterday when I called him a ferret ” he wonders if she’s listening “also don’t ask me to call Theo because seriously Lydia I just don’t-“

“Trust him” she says, and maybe she listens more than he thought. The radio is playing that new Taylor Swift song, and she’s tapping her fingers lightly against the window in time to the base as he breaks the speed limit and doesn’t care.

He can't stop looking over at her every few seconds, because her hair is dripping and she's wearing a ‘BEACON HILLS CHEER’ top even though she’s never been a cheerleader, and three quarter leggings with a gaping hole in the knee and she's not even in shoes. This never stops being odd, when he was ten he used to have dreams where they got married and she sat on their kitchen countertop eating pancake mix out of the bowl.

“Stiles.” Oh fuck please god don’t let him have said that out loud “Stiles you missed the turn.”

He pumps the breaks and she is thrust forward, seat belt wound around her neck. He makes a wild U-Turn and she grips the centre console with tight knuckles because Jesus. They bounce off the curb, and he’s thanking God there is no one on this road this late, and she’s praying that the reason for her death won't be Stiles’s insane driving.

“My driving is not insane.”

“Yes it is, could you at least look at where you're going, you almost hit that ladies mailbox.”

“I can’t believe you just called my driving insane.” He’s undoing his seatbelt as she shoves open her door.

“I cannot believe you knocked out a two metre mutant with a fire extinguisher.” He fumbles with the keys because he can feel her fingers against his elbow which is something he’s really rather not think about right now but it’s there in his mind anyway.

They burst in, and she pushes through the barrier thing at the front desk like she's trying to break it in half, and then they're in the back room and then-

“I swear, it was like- right there when I left.”

Lydia sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Stiles is still gaping at the operating table, which decidedly doesn’t have a two metre tall mutant that got knocked out by a fire extinguisher on it. She pulls her head up, and takes the keys out of his hand.

“Right, we are going to call Scott, and I am going to drive us to get Malia. We are also going home for shoes.”


	3. three

Sometimes when it’s four.a.m. and I haven’t slept in eight days I think about that night Peter Hale crawled out of your head.

 

You never talk about, which is normal, because we don’t talk about a lot of things but I can't help thinking about it. Was it like a dream thing? Did you see him when you walked around your house home alone? Peter was the kind of asshole that would dig into things even if they had no relevance to what he was doing, I have this horrible image of him shifting though your memories and eating them whole. Obviously, that didn’t happen, but its four .a.m. so you’ve gotta give me some leeway here

 

I google banshees when I'm sitting in AP English bored out my brain, reading old myths and legends of these old awful women who screamed and saw death. What does it look like, I keep meaning to ask but I always end up getting distracted by people trying to kill us, do you see something? Is it like a taste, the smell of blood?

 

You say a lot, or scream a lot, about the voices in your head except you never tell me what they say. Tell me it’s not bad. Tell me you can handle it. Because I have this horrible, disgusting feeling that maybe you can't, and maybe you're losing, and maybe something terrible is going to happen.

 

But that’s ridiculous. You're Lydia fucking Martin, you took the PSAT’s freshman year, know how to make a self-igniting Montov Cocktail, a man used you to come back to life, when we were fourteen you did the school confidence course in high heels, you know Archaic Latin, you were the first girl in our entire year to learn how to put on eyeliner properly. The idea that you could lose something, that something could beat you, is insane. You can predict death and give me shit about my damn baseball bat in the same sentence. 

 

But, your math notes. The ones from last year when there was the price tag over everyone’s head, do you remember? You wrote out pages and pages of coding. You filled the book, you were writing on the back cover and you had no memory of doing it. How the hell could that have happened, I'm so terrified that one day you’ll drive off a cliff or cut yourself with a knife and not even be aware that you're doing it.

 

Scott says that nothing is going to happen, but he’s also Scott and he could literally be getting stabbed and try to positive-attitude his way out of it. I'm getting real tired of being the cynical one in the group. I wish you were around more because then you could be and everyone would take this all more seriously because everyone knows you're infinitely smarter than me.

 

I wish this hadn’t happened to you, if it matters. I wish you didn’t know awful things before everyone else did. And of course this doesn’t matter, and makes absolutely no difference at all, but I do. I really, really do


End file.
